


Pragmatic

by Ducks



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Episode Related, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-07
Updated: 2009-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:24:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ducks/pseuds/Ducks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faith's not willing to let things go easily, especially when it comes to her friend Angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pragmatic

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the LJ Puppet Angel Ficathon, posted Apr. 28th, 2004.

Faith considers herself the ultimate pragmatist. When something is broken, you fix it. When people need help, you help them. When you're hungry, you eat; tired, you sleep; horny, you fuck. The end. Why so many other people who are*not* her need so much damn melodrama in their lives completely eludes her.

Buffy is a perfect example – she's currently portraying the picture in the dictionary next to "Drama Queen": 'Angel works for the ultimate Bad Guys, wah wah, he must be evil, excuse me while I faint like a friggin' girly-girl.'

"I just can't… what is he *thinking*? How can he possibly imagine this is *okay*? I can't believe him!" the elder Slayer rants like the world's coming to an end around her ears -- to herself more than anyone, since Faith mostly thinks she’s full of crap. "Has he gone totally *insane*? God… He lost his soul didn't he? Oh, God. And Wesley's dead, that's why he didn't call us."

"Hey, B, Here's a radical plan: call him and find out," Faith suggests. 'Cause – logic.

And earns herself a glare that would probably hurt if it was solid. "Why, so he can give me some song and dance that's probably a patronizing lie anyway and then hop on the next private flight to kill us all because he knows we're on to him? No thank you. Let him stew in his own… evil or whatever. We have Slayers to train. Angel and his completely screwed up decision-making and possible evilness is going to have to wait a while. I can't cope with it right now."

Bullshit on that noise, man. Angel is their friend – Hell, he's supposed to be the love of B's shiny life, and she writes him off just like that?

The big guy saved Faith's life, saved her sanity, saved her *soul*, and she'll move mountains, face all the Hell and high water or whatever that she has to, to keep him safe. She broke out of the cage for him, didn't she? Now she'll be a fugitive for the rest of her life, but that's a small price to pay to keep Angel in the game. And not even a fraction of what she owes him.

He's working for the ultimate black hats? She figures there has to be a reason: a spell or a grand plan or something, 'cause Angel's not stupid, and he's certainly not evil. And if there's a reason, a plan or a spell, she's going to find out what it is. So she borrows some DP's from Giles for a ticket to LA, takes a cab to the mountain of steel and glass (new steel and glass, she notices) that is Wolfram &amp; Hart, slides right up to the reception desk on the top floor and tells the bimbo vampire receptionist with the fake tits that she's there to see the boss. Now.

The bimbo smacks her gum in reply. Faith wonders if it's a good idea that vampires chew gum, given the whole fangs and probably no vamp dentists thing, and why does Angel have a vampire for a secretary anyway? It creeps her out that this may be one piece of evidence that Buffy's paranoid delusions are right. "He's in a meeting. Would you like to make an appointment?"

The Slayer gives a smile she hopes is as snide as the tone this bitch is using. "I'd *like* to punch you in the face, but... I've got this whole Zen thing going on now. Hope you didn't miss the "now" part. It's important."

The bimbo, whose little nameplate says *Harmony* of all the freaking stupid Cali names, gives her a look that Faith is sure she thinks is blasé. In actuality, it registers high on the "duh, I'm a big moron" scale. "I'm sure it is. I'll definitely write that next to your name in the *appointment* book. Which is what we use to *schedule* people *ahead of time* to see Mr. Angel. He's a very busy ma—vampire."

*Mr.* Angel? Faith closes her eyes, counts to ten, listens to her breathing, thinks about little stone cottages in sun dappled forests and bowls of chocolate ice cream and all kinds of other stress reduction techniques she learned in the joint so she doesn't flip out and stake Blondie's ass before she's gotten a bead on what the fuck's going on around here.

"Listen, Gidget. Tell him Faith is here to see him. That should clear up any scheduling problems." Normally she wouldn't pull this kind of lame-ass, 'I'm-so-important 'cause I know the boss… intimately' trick. She'd rather get by being intimidating with twits like this. But time is short, and there may be evil brewing.

The twit's face collapses into a spoiled pout. "Fine," she says, and picks up the phone, punches a few keys with the eraser on her pencil, therefore saving a set of extra pink, extra-shiny nails. Faith never really featured vamps going to the salon. But then, she never really featured them working as legal receptionists either, so... maybe there are dentists specializing in the undead after all. "Mr. Angel, there's a... Yes, I know you're still... I *know*, I'm sorry but you... but you... but you SAID to interrupt you no matter what if... FAITHISHERETOSEEYOU!"

And with the magick words spoken, Gidget the Vampire sets the receiver very gingerly back into the cradle. Faith straightens up and gets ready to see the best friend she's ever had for the first time in almost a year, and find out once and for all just what he's doing working for Hell's own personal counsel.

"Mr. Angel says to tell you he's really sorry, but he can't see you today."

Faith flinches at the bimbo's words because, for one, she just flew 15 hours from Rome to make sure he's okay, so she's a little twitchy to begin with; and two, this is pretty much the last thing she expected to happen when she got here.

"He what now?"

"He says he can't see you. He's uh... very busy today. He has important clients, you know. Like… Justin Timberlake! Which is who he's meeting with *right now*."

Something about Gidget's performance – besides her total bullshit story -- is wrong. Faith narrows her eyes at her. "He won't see me because he's 'busy'? You gotta be kidding."

Gidget nods. "I can fit you in tomorrow," she glances worriedly at the door, and adds under her breath. "I hope."

Faith follows her eyes to office nearby, and sees that heavy blinds are drawn over the windows facing the hallway. There is definitely something going on here that she's not going to like.

"Okay, that's it."

She heads to the door, throws it open and marches straight inside, ready for a fight. She's almost surprised to find the usual suspects sitting casually around, looking at the desk at the front of the room, and in the big leather chair to her left...

"Spike? I thought you were supposed to be dust. And what's so funny?"

Buffy's not-any-more-dead-than-he-used-to-be ex-boytoy (man is B gonna *flip*) is grinning so hard he looks like his face might break off any second. He nods to the front of the room in response, and snickers quietly.

Faith finally takes a gander at the seeming focal point of what everyone is staring at with varying degrees of amusement:

The big leather executive chair currently doesn't contain a 6-foot vampire, but instead... a 3-foot puppet. A puppet that looks exactly like Angel: same haircut, same clothes (down to a little puppet-sized leather duster), even the same serious brow. A puppet that is wearing a *very* dark scowl, which he is currently aiming in her direction.

No doubt about it – Angel's somehow turned into a Muppet. She couldn't have been more shocked if he broke into song right there.

"Faith," Puppet Angel grumps in greeting. "As you can see, you've stopped by at a bad time."

"Oh... shit," she observes, chomping down hard on her lip for a good three seconds in deference to his obvious discomfort before she busts out laughing.

~

It’s a good story, as twisted-ass acid freak 60's flicks go, and Faith is totally riveted. She spends the next hour biting her lip clear through trying to keep from cracking up every five seconds as Angel fills her in on what happened, then finishes the office briefing she walked in on. Spike, on the other hand, is not nearly so polite. He's spent the whole time snorting and guffawing like Puppet Angel's the funniest thing he's ever seen.

Which he is, to Faith at least, but she can see how miserable he is about his condition, and she cares about him enough to nearly kill herself trying not to let her amusement show.

After that initial slip, anyway.

"So, this TV station hit you with the big mojo to, what, start the Great Sesame Street Revolution of 2004?" Spike snarks, still breaking in to whatever topic is current to chuckle under his breath, make a snide comment, or ask a ridiculous question. Apparently, Angel the Puppet had taken him out in the hall and gave his skinny ass a good kicking the day before upon their introduction, but it hadn't done any good. A beating from his grandsire was probably pretty much par for the course at this point in their relationship anyway, the way she figures it.

"We're done with that topic, *Spike*," Angel growls, showing admirable restraint considering how annoyed he obviously is. "We're talking about the Veshilt case."

"Yeah, but, I want to know about Big Bird's role in yesterday's shenanigans," the younger vamp goes on, grinning from ear to ear, "Should we be worried about any other felt fellows we meet on the street? Elmo, for example. That whole too-cute-to-be-true thing he’s got going on has got to be a ruse."

Angels mouth screws up into a truly unfortunate parody of his angriest scowl, and his retort is hissed through squishy lips instead of teeth. Faith wonders briefly if he has a puppet game face, and mentally kicks herself for being such a bitch. Poor Angel. "I said -- we're *done* with the Smile Time case. It's solved, closed, and off. The table. Okay?"

"Yeah, fine, whatever," Spike agrees. "But I'm never gonna look at Kermit the same way again. Kind of like after I saw him and Miss P getting it on in a porno that time..."

"Spike!" Angel finally barks. "Can we please *focus* for *five minutes*?"

The younger demon holds up his hands in surrender, and quiet reigns once more.

"Okay, we're done, everybody," Angel concludes, having won his power struggle. "Thanks."

Faith stays right where she's at, in the nice, cushy leather easy chair at the far end of the room, and watches the parade of good guys march out with Spike bringing up the rear.

"See ya later, Bert. Watch out for Velcro," he says in a flawless Ernie imitation as he shuts the door behind him. "Later, Slayer."

Faith is actually pretty surprised Spike isn't occupying a vacuum bag in a landfill somewhere – like Sunnydale Canyon. How are these two managing to maintain even this level of truce? Does Angel not know that B spent the better part of a year taking the high, hard one from Soulboy Jr. --*Pre* soul? And if he doesn't know – which she has a hard time believing, considering it seems to be Spike's great joy in unlife to torture Angel – isn't he going to find out sooner or later?

Better not go there, considering everything else that's going on. But thinking about it reminds her that Buffy doesn't even know that the Bleached Wonder is still alive... or... undead, whatever. And it's clear that no one around here bothered to tell her – including Angel -- a situation which is sure to cause a definite lid-flipping when she *does* find out. Which she inevitably will, because Buffy is one of those people you can never hide anything from. Like the fact that you had to replace her favorite leather vest because you spilled beer all over it when you borrowed it without asking.

Damn, she hates being the bearer of homicidal-rage inducing news. And she's fairly certain hearing that the fact that no, Angel isn't evil, but he either can't or won't explain why he's working for Wolfram &amp; Hart is definitely not going to make her feel any better.

Talk about your “no wins”.

Angel gives the most woeful sigh she's ever heard and takes a few moments to struggle back up into his chair. Watching his little legs kicking wildly reminds her about the whole "must resist laughing" situation, and distracts her a bit from the tragic irony that seems to plague her sponsor, her sister Slayer and any poor sucker who orbits them.

"So..." she begins once he's settled.

She feels worse that he seems to have given up dignity altogether and just sort of sprawls there, pressing his fuzzy temples with one four-fingered hand before he meets her gaze. "So."

"So... you got turned into a puppet. That's uh... different. As fight scenarios go, I mean." What else is she supposed to say? It's not like the topic's avoidable. It's the biggest white elephant squatting in the middle of the room in the history of white elephants. The questions pour out of her before she can stop them. "From what you said, at least it's not permanent, right? I mean... what does it feel like, being a puppet? It could be pretty cool. Do you still need blood?"

"Faith, please."

He sounds so tired, she feels ten times worse than she did for thinking the situation is funny on some truly fucked up cosmic level. "I'm sorry, Angel, it's just..."

"No, I know. I'm sure in retrospect, I'll think it's hilarious too. Fred and Lorne took pictures, just to be sure I'll have the chance to find out. But right now..."

"Right now you feel like an ass," she finishes for him, resisting the urge to get up and hug him. Which would no doubt only make things way worse. He’s running a little dry on pride right now as it is.

The comical mouth quirks in a sad hint of smile. "To say the least. I wish I was in a better position to welcome you, but..." he shrugs. "What's up?"

She runs a dozen bullshit scenarios through her head, and discards them all instantly. This is Angel – he deserves better than a lie or the cold shoulder B's been giving him.

"I’m worried about you, big guy. Everybody in Slayerland is." She nods her head, encompassing the posh digs that are his office. "What's with the sell-out?"

He sits up a little straighter, and for the first time, she notices some structural damage – a sewn rip here, a scar there. Funny. Not in a ha-ha way, either. Does his vamp healing translate to felt? What would his fighting skills be like as a puppet?

Although the black eye Spike was sporting looked pretty damn skillful, squishy cloth hand or no.

"We didn't sell out," he says. She can't tell anything from his tone or his expression, so she's got to assume he's serious. But seeing him sitting there in his designer duds – even if they are puppet-sized – makes it a little hard to believe.

"Coulda fooled me. And unlike B, I'm not going to just let it slide with a, 'he's a grown vampire, that's his business' and a fake casual hair-toss. I want to know why you made a deal with the devil. You're obviously not evil... although, I suppose there's no reason puppets *can't* be evil..."

"I'm not evil, Faith," he says softly, and she can hear the weariness overwhelm his voice. "There was a complicated decision making process involved in taking over this firm, and a lot of it I'm not at liberty to discuss with you. Or Buffy. Or anyone else. But it was a decision that I felt I had to make."

She frowns. It all sounds so reasonable – except the "not at liberty" bit. "Dude, I've been in your skull. I know what's going on in there. And B's got a pretty damn good idea herself. So what can't you tell us?"

The bulgy little eyes and their complete lack of any sign of life, stay nailed on her for so long it starts to creep her out. She knows he's just trying to think of what to say, but that doesn't make it any more comfortable to be the object of that empty gaze. He's usually dead, but Angel's eyes have always been alive: with pain or sorrow or even bittersweet happiness a couple of times…

This puppet doesn't have that animating spark – whatever it is. She wonders if this form can possibly have a soul, and if that's something she should be worried about.

After all, he might only weigh in at 30 or 40 pounds, but he kicked Spike's ass pretty good.

"I wish I could," he finally tells her. "I really do. But I can't. I made an agreement, and I can't break it. Not even for you or Buffy."

She nods slowly, completely at a loss for where to go next with this little scenario. It sounds like a pretty damn final statement. "If they've got something on you, Angel… you know we'll help. We've got an army at our back now. The Senior Partners got nothing on 400 Slayers."

His gaze shifts downward. "Thanks. But I'm fairly certain Buffy wouldn't agree."

They sit there for a while in silence, caught at a crossroads that Faith has no idea how to navigate. "So you don't need any help, then? This isn't something they're forcing you to do…"

He shakes his head, but doesn't look up. "No. It's not."

"Angel…"

He looks up at her once more. "Faith, you have to let it go. Believe me, none of the things any of you are thinking are true, but I can't tell you more than that. Please, just… trust me. I know the others don't, but I hope that you at least…" he shakes his head. "Damn it. I can't keep a thought straight in this form. Mostly I just want to sing catchy jingles about kindness and self-esteem."

"There are worse things to sing about, I guess," She forces herself to smile. "I don't want to leave things like this, Angel. Something here's not right. I mean… besides the obvious."

The little puppet-smirk returns, and he moves to climb out of the chair and make his way over to stand in front of hers. His puppet height brings them eye-to-eye while she’s sitting down. He takes her hand and gives it a squeeze, and for a moment, she feels like a kid in nursery school again. Or possibly like she’s on a seriously fucked up trip. “I appreciate you coming all this way, Faith. But you don't have to worry about me. I've got everything under control."

It sounds like the assurance of every out-of-control drunk, junkie or freak she's ever known – including herself. But you can’t fight denial in the thick of it. She squeezes the little puppet hand and tries to look comforted. "Whatever you say, Chief."

The bimbo shoots her a glare as she flits into the office and sets a mug on Angel’s desk, then flits back out again.

"Great help you got there," she observes. "Didn't she go to school with B and Cordelia?"

"Yeah," he sighs, and leaves it at that. He forces himself to brighten. "Well, since you're here… do you have some time to see the other side of LA's nightlife? I could use an evening out. Dinner? Movie? Demon strip show? 24-hour gallery? I can get them to shut down the Harley showroom, if you want to go for a ride. You’ll have to drive."

She puts on her own fake smile and hopes he's kidding about everything except the Harley part. At least if she spends some time with him, maybe she can figure out what he's hiding. Have something concrete to tell Buffy to take the load off, because whether B will admit it or not she’s as worried about Angel as anyone. And the only person Faith owes even close to as big as Angel himself is Buffy. "Sure. Love to."

“Great!” Puppet Angel exclaims just a bit too loudly (Wes said something about proportionate emotions or something), sighs and does this silly puppet-walk over to an elevator on the far side of the room. Faith hangs back to give herself a minute to practice not laughing hysterically again, but the sight of Angel jumping up and down, frantically trying to reach the elevator button is just too damn much.

She busts out like her life depends on it, to the point where she’s doubled over, clutching her gut, sobbing with laughter and apologizing to Angel at the same time. By the time she finally catches her breath and looks up, ready to beg her bud for forgiveness, he’s standing there, sort of chuckling right along with her.

Feeling more or less exonerated, she does the job for him and hits the down button. As the door slides open and they step inside, he looks up at her with what she could swear is a bit of quiet desperation.

“Faith, could you do me a favor?”

“Anything, Big A, you know that.”

“Whatever you tell Buffy about what you found here... do you think you could, uh... leave out the puppet part?”

She grins down at him, tempted to tease. But if her friend needs anything right now, it’s a break. “No sweat,” she promises.

He nearly sags with relief. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

~

The End


End file.
